


DEVILISH LOOK IN HIS EYE

by Queenoftheuniverse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, M/M, Scarification, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenoftheuniverse/pseuds/Queenoftheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John did something terrible when he was fifteen. Very few know why and even less understand. </p><p>Twenty years later John settles into his life with the madman known as Sherlock Holmes and the past remains buried.</p><p>Until Hunters come to London and John begins to sing again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you know this was a dream I had in the late nineties. I merely changed the person in my dream to John. Also, while writing the summary I dropped a Turkish Delight Tim Tam into my coffee trying to do a Tim Tam surprise which I can usually do quite skilfully but this time....not so much.

A DEVILISH LOOK IN HIS EYE

The legend went thus;

On a freezing cold, early British morning, a sandy haired teen called John, fifteen that year, was seen running along the grey pavement of his Welsh village, past thatched roofed houses and flowered gardens.

All the town knew who he was. 

John's father was an English man who had come here to set up a doctors practice. John's mother was a local girl who had gone to England to teach and had eventually come back with her English husband and her two children, Harriet, the dancer, and John, the local schools top Rugby player. A good family. A nice family. Mostly English, sure, but getting Welsher.

And he was seen by so many that morning. It was not a big village. Most people knew who everyone was, and where they fit.

Nobody thought to stop John. He ran often, as training for the team. And the machine gun in his hand? A prop. Surely. Not a real one. Where would a real one come from?

When he ran up the steps to the church nobody thought it was odd. He sang in the choir, and he had a gorgeous voice. Not only that, for a teen boy, he had often expressed a joy in the songs. So many witness statements said that afterwards. How much he enjoyed the choir and the singing.

Nobody had suspected a thing.

He ran, it is said, down the centre of the church, stopped halfway down, and lifted the machine gun.

The boys choir was in full dress rehearsal for Christmas. Slightly diagonal from the pews, in rows, singing in voices pure and high. Frocks white and lacy collars smartly red. And the Choirmaster, Father Fergus with his black hair and his dark eyes, smiling and waving his arms proudly as the boys sang to the glory of heaven.

When John opened fire, sweeping the choir and the Father with bullets, the noise, it was recalled in stories told to the papers, was ghastly loud in the purity of the sanctity of the church. The screams, it was also said on many talk shows later, were far far worse, ripping the sanctity of the holy space and soaking it in fear and blood, they said, so much blood!

Once the gun clicked empty the teen known as John had paused, then dropped the gun with a crash. The air, it was seen by the first who ran in, was filled with dust and the silence was terrifying.

Then, as all those first witnesses who skidded to a halt in in the vestibule saw, John Watson covered his face and crumpled to his knees on the cold cobbled floor.

The rumours as to why John Watson did this (sexual abuse, jealousy, unrequited love) was never satisfactorily answered and soon it faded into the mists of time. Well, two weeks in the world's media, but still recalled in the village by people who had been there that day.

John's family left Wales without him, as he was sent to a facility for young offenders. The village went on, happily. If occasionally visitors asked why there were bullet holes in the church then Johns story was told.

But the real reason John killed the choir master and thirteen of his friends that cold December morning was kept locked deep inside John Watson, and he swore never to share. 

And he never did, until Sherlock happened.

 

#


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has been in love with John for a long time. John rejects deep love in all it's forms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very very very light mention of abuse in this chapter. Not enough to tag it. Yet.

CHAPTER TWO

TWENTY YEARS LATER

A FLAT IN BAKER STREET

EARLY NIGHT

"John FUCKING Watson, stay STILL!!"

John froze where he was, his writhing in pain on the couch halted. Sherlock had never raised his voice at John like that before, and had certainly never sworn at him in the three years they had lived together. The shock had the desired effect. John Fucking Watson stopped moving.

"Better, thank you John. Now, I am going to remove your jacket, jumper and shirt, and you are going to sit up straight and BE STILL!"

John grit his teeth. Then nodded twice, very quickly. Sherlock was surprisingly gentle, helping John to sit up and sliding his jacket off. But when John had to raise his arms to get the jumper and T-shirt over his head he hissed in pain and a short moan burst from his throat. He stamped it down quickly but he felt Sherlock pause in sympathy. 

Finally John sat in just his jeans. Sherlock probed at the dark angry mottled marks on his friends ribs and John yelped. Sherlocks fingers retreated.

"Bruised."

"That bastard had big boots." John whispered, too shocked at the pain to use his full voice. His eyes were closed and his fists were clenched. The bugger they had been chasing had turned when cornered and got a brilliant kick right to Johns ribs before Sherlock had taken him down and cuffed him with Lestrades own cuffs.

Sherlock had not realised JUST how hurt John was, high on the chase and capture, but now, at home, he was appalled. 

"John...perhaps hospital? I think...they may be broken."

"No. Not broken." John whispered, forcing himself to relax. "I know what that feels like. I can still breathe and there is no sharp pain. Bind me, I'll take some paracetamol, sleep..." He forced his eyes open and caught the extremely concerned and alien eyes of Sherlock Homes. He coughed, winced, and managed to have a bit of voice when he said. "I'll be fine."

"I'll....uh....make the tea." Sherlock said. He rose lithely to his feet, sliding his own coat and scarf off. As he rolled the sleeves of his purple shirt up, John looked at him. Those eyes, blue as the sea, were very nearly becoming Sherlocks anchor, even edged in pain as they were tonight.

"Bandage is under the bathroom sink, paracetamol above it." John said, colour returning to his cheeks but spine still snapped straight.

"Right--" Sherlock nodded, and left to fetch the bandage for Johns ribcage, and some pills for the pain.

John breathed out and winced a little, running over his ribs with his hand. He began to shiver as the adrenalin of the night wore off and the cold of the flat seeped in. Just another night living with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock returned and John managed to dry swallow the pills before Sherlock set to strapping his doctors chest. He was remarkably gentle again and John wondered if perhaps he had fallen into a parallel universe. The lanky detective was usually dismissive, or at the very least uninterested in Johns well being.

"Sherlock, are you--"

"It was the sound John. It made me sick." Sherlock said. 

"Eh?"

Sherlock was not sure when he stopped and looked, really LOOKED, at his friend John Watson. It was maybe three months ago. He was doing nothing remarkable, just sipping tea at the kitchen table, but from Sherlocks position supine on the couch, John suddenly took on a new dimension. He looked golden and perfect and beautiful and Sherlock was completely blind sided. 

"The sound of that...BASTARDS boot connecting with your body. Knowing that it happened because of ME, something I started...." Sherlock explained shakily. And of course, John was precious to him and...yes yes, of course one reacts like that when someone you love is injured...

"I've been hurt before, as have you. This was no diff--"

"It was." Sherlock snapped. "It was..." He added, softer.

John shook his head. But the subject, it appeared, was closed.

"Finished." Sherlock said then, but left his hands on Johns sides for a minute. Big hands, now warmed with the action of looking after John. His John.

"Sherlock--"

"John I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, fuck off, I knew what I was doing." John sighed.

Sherlocks hands dropped from Johns body to allow John to redress himself. 

The blond reached with a hiss for his T-Shirt and, as he slid it on he heard Sherlock make a strange sound. Johns head floofed out through the neck hole he once again caught Sherlocks alien eyes looking very intently at him. This was....different.

"I've been the cause of all your injuries since we have collaborated." Sherlock stated.

"You are only just realising that?"

"Why...why do you stay?"

"Sherlock, if we were ever to have this conversation it would have to have been in the first month after I was shot at by a masked man, jumped in front of a police car, fell off the fire escape and got knifed behind New Scotland Yard."

Sherlock slumped into Johns armchair and put his head in his hands, grabbing at his hair.

"Sherlock?"

"I am sorry John."

"So you keep saying. And I keep saying it's okay, it's always been okay." John frowned. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

"I seem to be having a crisis of conscience."

"Ah." John said. "Is there...anything I can do?"

"I will work through it." Sherlock said. He looked up. "I have always considered myself....outside of feelings."

"I know"

"But I care about you John, about what happens to you."

"How lovely to know."

"John I am, actually, being serious." 

"I have no doubt, but tomorrow you will feel better and be back to your old--"

"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped. 

John did, in surprise. Perhaps Sherlock WAS serious.

"Mycroft tells me caring is not an advantage." Sherlock went on. "But John, I care about you. I don't care if it's an advantage or not. I care."

"All this from the sound of a boot to the ribs." John smiled gently.

"It was..." Sherlock shook his head. "Sickening."

"I'll be okay."

"We are like two sides of a coin. I am the black obsessed rude evil side, you are the white moral good side and we work, we do, but not without considerable risk to your...code of conduct."

"Sherlock, really, you see me as a man with ethics?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes of course John. Your moral compass--"

"Sherlock, please. You have it all wrong."

"I am never wrong."

"No, I know, just...I may not have been presenting the whole of me all the time so your deductions may be a tad off."

"What do you mean John? I see things nobody does, you cannot hide anything from me."

"I mean....stop feeling guilty. We all do things we later regret. I chose to be here and believe me, it's for me as well as you. I am...redeeming myself somewhat."

"John, you are singularly the most...puzzling and confusing person I have ever met."

"I know, you have said so many times."

"And I am in love with you."

Johns words dried up and he just stared at his flatmate. Of all the things to come from Sherlocks mouth, those words...never. Especially not towards him, broken and short John Watson.

"You...love me?"

"Yes. I have done for a long time. I just don't know, I have never felt this before, I had nothing to base it on. No...." Sherlock waved his hand, frowning. "No data!"

"Uh...." Said John, stupidly.

"I wanted to tear that man apart tonight with my bare hands!"

"Um...."

"I wanted to kick him just as hard!"

"Erm..."

"So childish! These FEELINGS!" Sherlock put on a snarky tone and said sarcastically "He touched my things, now I'm gonna hurt him!"

"Sherlock--"

"John..." Sherlock suddenly took in his friends stiff posture and confusion. " Is it okay that I am in love with you? You are not required to love me back just...say it won't change anything. I...don't know why I told you but...does it matter?"

"No...Sherlock, no. It's okay. I...wish I could return your feelings but.." John shook his head. He didn't deserve love. Meaningless sex with handsome strangers from bars, one night stands with men he would never see again, abuse in alleys from one or two men much stronger than him yes. But love? No. 

"Not gay, I know..." Sherlock sighed.

"It's not that. I just...I'm not...Sherlock, I am not loveable."

Sherlock turned to his friend in surprise.

"Surely the fact I love you disproves that."

"Yeah, but you are a mad man, everyone knows that." John smiled, but his smile did not reach his eyes. "No it's...better..."

"Better?"

"Better if I don't receive...good things. Just for a while." Or twenty years, he thought. Maybe thirty.

"John...what are you...who TOLD you that?" 

John just shrugged.

Then Mrs Hudson's voice called from downstairs.

"Yoo Hoo boys, you have some visitors! I know it's an odd time, but they are American dears!"

John shrugged gently, stiffly slipping his jumper back on.

"I'll go Sherlock." He said. "But it will be you they want."

Sherlock nodded distractedly as John crossed to the door. So much input to process now. John was...a wonder.

"Oh, John." He suddenly said.

"Yes?"

"Don't show them up for less than a six."

John laughed

"Of course not Sherlock" he said, and descended the stairs to see what the Americans wanted.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooooo, Americans at the door!!! Any guesses???


	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winchesters. That is all :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying to make this story completely linear, not to-ing and fro-ing in time, and when the past is mentioned it will be in the form of straight from the horses mouth rather than flashback. This is a challenge for me. 
> 
> So is only having one chic chip muffin a day, but I can do it...I CAN DO IT!!!

CHAPTER THREE

IN THE FOYER OF BAKER STREET

STILL EARLY NIGHT

"Oh there you are Doctor Watson. These boys have an appointment with Sherlock." Mrs Hudson tossed over her shoulder and bustled away. She waved at the two men standing awkwardly in front of the Victorian wallpaper that slathered the hall. 

They looked tired, jet lagged. A bit dusty from the trail. Definitely American from the flannel on the long haired one and boots and leather jacket on the blonde guy.

"Uh, no, we don't." The blond said, but was ignored.

"Doctor John Watson." John offered, and gingerly put out his arm in order to shake the shorter guys hand. Well, shorter of the two. He was about the same height as Sherlock but compared the giant next to him, he was the shorter.

"Dean. Winchester. My brother Sam. We don't have an appointment." Said Dean, in a gravelly American accent.

"Ah, that's okay. Sherlocks upstairs. Usually I don't bother him for less than a six but I am tired and injured and you look interesting. At least you can distract him."

"Uh. Doctor Watson--" Dean began.

"John',

"John, we are not--"

"Oh god, just come up. I am dying for a tea and...well...just don't be boring." 

John turned and missed the shrug that passed between the brothers. They followed the doctor up the stairs to the flat.

"Sam and Dean Winchester Sherlock., to see you." John sighed, making his way into the kitchen past the consulting detective sat at the table, staring into one of the seven microscopes that lined up on the kitchen table. Why seven, John had no idea. They had just....bred overnight. "Gentlemen, Sherlock Holmes."

John turned and filled the kettle.

"Doctor, we are not--" Dean began, but was interrupted.

"Boring." Sherlock said from the microscope he was intently staring into. He had not even looked up.

"Sherlock, at least PRETEND to look." John sighed, switching to jug on and getting down four cups. 

Sherlock looked up at the two men and snapped "Bor--" then stopped. "Oh....interesting." He pushed himself away from the table and stared intently at the brothers, hands steepled under his chin, one ankle crossed over the other knee, jiggling.

John beamed. At least this might get Sherlock off the subject of being madly in love with him for a few hours. 

"Uh...really, we are not--"

"Came in from a twelve hour flight, straight here from the airport." Sherlock said.

"Look, we are not--" the taller, long haired brother, Sam finally spoke. But Sherlock over rode him too.

"No...wait...dumped your luggage at a cheap hotel and THEN came straight here. Why? Urgent. It's urgent business. You could have been sleeping off jet lag, yet you still came here--"

"If you could just let me speak--" Dean began and did not miss the huge grin plastered on Johns face as he sat back, waiting for the jug to boil.

"Hmmmm, something is not quite right...something something..." Sherlock mused, tapping his long fingers to his frankly beautiful mouth, alien eyes slitted.

"Tea, gentlemen?" John asked.

"Uh...do you have coffee?"

"Coffee it is. Please, pull up a chair, move a microscope. Sit." John said, waving in the direction of the kitchen table. The brothers exchanged a look and a shrug, and moved to do as John asked.

"Hmmm, yes, this does not phase you..." Sherlock went on, almost to himself but not quite. He did love showing off. "Moving microscopes, invited to tea, strangers in my flat but quite comfortable. You have been in strange situations before."

Dean snorted, taking three microscopes and gently placing them on the floor. Sam, the taller but younger brother, was turning a smaller one over in his hands. Peering at it intently. 

"Dean, older brother, action man. Sam, younger, intellectual." Sherlock mused.

"Ah...dude..." Dean said. "Could you stop that? We know why we are here. You really don't need to do that...fancy deducting thing."

"Pft, people lie." Sherlock said. "But not to me. I can see--"

"Yeah, dude...we are not here to see you." Dean said then, resting back on the chair like he was in a western saloon. John placed coffee in front of the guests, then went back to get the teas for himself and Sherlock. He could not help the grin. Sherlock, stumped...

"Not..." Sherlock frowned, jiggling in his seat as he stared Dean Winchester down. "No...you are not..." He swung around to look up at John, who was just setting his friends tea in front of him. John smiled, but it faltered at the intense look in Sherlocks eyes.

"We are here to see Doctor Watson." Sam said then. John sipped his tea but remained standing. He had a strange feeling of dread but he hid it. If Sherlock was in danger then fuck the state of his ribs, he could still fight and his gun was a mere three steps away down the back of his armchair....

"Me? Why?" John asked. "I am pretty sure I cannot help you."

"I hope you can. You have any idea how many thirty-five year old John Watson's there are in England?

"Few." John said, lips on his cup but not sipping. He was battle ready now. Sherlock stared at him. He could feel the tension in his friends body.

"Well, we narrowed it down to you, doctor." Dean went on. "My brother is pretty sure you are the particular John Watson we are looking for. He's the brains here. He's sure he's not wrong."

"I'd like to know what you want with John Mister Winchester." Sherlock said, dropping his deducing position for a more action ready pose. The room suddenly filled with tension. 

Dean reached into his jacket and John stepped back automatically. Dean put his other hand up. "Just my flask, doctor, been a long flight." And he pulled out a battered silver hip flask. Sherlocks eyes were all over it but deemed it safe enough in the two seconds it took for Dean to unscrew the lid.

Then suddenly Dean threw the contents at Johns face, leaping to his feet at the same time his giant moose of a brother also gained his footing, the chair crashing to the floor behind him. 

John dropped the tea in surprise and was slammed back against the wall by Sam, who was chanting at him in...Latin, was that Latin? His ribs screamed and John did too.

Sherlock, meantime, had whirled from his seat and come up with Johns gun, deftly removed from the chair as he twirled. He cocked it at Deans head but Dean barely registered it, focused as he was on Sam and John.

"Oh no no NO NO!!!" John cried in despair. "NO!! NO!!" 

"John!" Sherlock cried, gun unwaveringly pointed at Dean Winchesters head.

"He's not steaming Sammy, he's clean" Dean said.

"GET OFF ME!" John wheezed, ribs killing him as he pushed at Sam's considerable bulk. "GET THE FUCK OFF ME!"

Sam took three steps back, hands up in mock surrender. Sherlock turned the gun on him, still steady as a rock.

"John, are you okay!" Sherlock cried.

John was slumped, wheezing, one hand clutched at his damaged ribs. He choked a bit but nodded.

"Sorry Doctor Watson, we had to be sure." Sam said then.

"Fuck you!" John said, spitting out saliva.

"I suggest, gentlemen, that you start explaining yourselves." Sherlock said.

"Gun?" Dean said. Sherlock swivelled his eyes to Dean. "The gun you have pointed at my brother. Lower it."

Sherlock paused, looked to John who nodded again, very quickly. Sherlock clicked the safety on and lowered the weapon. Then he crossed to John, gripping one of his biceps to hold him up.

"Are you okay. John! Are you okay!"

"Fine Sherlock. Ribs hurt, but I am okay."

Sherlock whirled to the brothers.

"Get out. Get out of our flat."

"Look, were real sorry, but we had to be sure he wasn't..."

"A demon?" Sherlock snapped.

"Uh..." Dean said helpfully.

"I studied Latin at school." Sherlock said. "Eton."

"Oh." Dean nodded.

"You were exorcising John." 

"Yes, we were." Sam said quietly.

"Fine...well..." Sherlock sputtered, then gathered himself. "You have come, thrown water at my flatmate, injured his already injured ribs and sworn at him in Latin. You may go now."

"Sherlock...." John said, very quietly.

"John, I can't have you hurt again." Sherlock stated, tightening his grip on John's arm.

"Sherlock, remember earlier tonight I said I have done stuff? Stuff I needed to atone for?"

"Yes John, I have an eidetic memory."

"Well....this is it."  
"Sorry?"

"This is it. The Winchesters have come to kill me."

"What!" Sam cried.

"No!" Dean added in the same shocked voice as his brother.

"I'll kill them first." Sherlock stated, deadly serious, standing in front of John and raising the gun again.

"We are not here to kill you John!" Sam said. "We are on your side!"

"We know what happened in Wales and we are here to ask for your help!" Dean added.

"What happened in Wales John?" Sherlock asked, not moving an inch.

"Oh fuck me...FUCK!" John yelled, thumping the wall. He gently moved Sherlock aside and stepped forward.

"If you really know what happened in Wales then why do you want to help me? Nobody has before. Not my village, my family, the court system nor my fellow inmates."

"Inmates John?" Sherlock squeaked but was ignored.

"What makes you so...helpful..." John spat the last word, furious.

"We know why you did it John." Sam said. 

"We would have done the same thing." Dean said, voice soft with empathy.

John snorted. 

"Thing is John...we are really sorry to tell you this, you have probably tried real hard to put this behind you, move on..." Sam went on.

"But Father Fergus...survived and now..." Dean paused.

"He's killing in the name of John Watson." Sam announced.

Johns face went pale and then his body shut down. It was all too much, the injury, the declaration of love, his past thrown in his face, his nightmare returned.

His eyes rolled and he crumpled, bonelessly, to the floor.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stacks on Hot John!!!!


	4. FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Might be some kissies....nah just angst!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think, somewhere along the line, Johns bandages magically dissapear. I can fix this or just leave it. I am not really THAT much of a perfectionist but it may miff some people...fair warning.
> 
> Also, I love bacon.

CHAPTER THREE

BAKER STREET FLAT

BY JOHNS SIDE, ALWAYS

Sherlock slid the gun into the back waistband of his tailored trousers and sank to the floor beside John.

"John..." He said, low voice gravelly with emotion. He gently ran the back of his knuckles down Johns stubbly face. Warm. Soft. Lovely.

"I can get him to the couch, if you like." Sam said quietly. He was seeing a man with his emotions laid bare, just for the briefest of seconds. Sam wondered if John knew that this man, this stern faced detective, loved him.

"Don't you touch him. I'll get him there." Sherlock hissed. He gathered the completely loose body of John to him, rose with a huff and clasped him to his chest as he staggered to the couch. He deposited his friend gently, making sure he was comfy, head elevated. He brushed the fringe out of Johns eyes and visually assessed that John was okay.

Sam and Dean had come into the room behind Sherlock.

"John said inmates." Sherlock said then, not looking up from Johns almost child-like face. "Was he in prison?"

"Not exactly." Sam said.

"No, of course not, he would not have been able to train as a doctor..."

"We cannot tell you Johns story dude. That's up to him." Dean said then. "Just...he did something when he was a teenager, was...sent away and his records were sealed. You won't be able to find any reference to this."

"Uh...neither will your brother." Sam added, a little guiltily. He had studied Johns life intensively before he and Dean had come. Sherlock was well known of course, and along with that was rumours of his older brother Mycroft. The British Government.

"I see you have done your homework." Was Sherlocks wry comment. 

John let out a gentle sigh and his eyes rolled. Then he blinked. His blue eyes took a second to focus and in that time he let his guard down.

"Sherlock..." And there was such emotion behind that one world that the outside world ceased to exist for Sherlock, and just zeroed in on the beautiful face of John Watson. He smiled and John began to smile back, raising his hand....and then it dropped. He recalled how he got here and he screwed his eyes shut, swallowing.

"Fuck..." He said elegantly. "So you know...?"

Sherlock couldn't speak so he shook his head, inky curls shivering against his skull.

"We didn't tell him." Sam said.

"Not our job." Dean added.

John hissed and tried to sit up. Sherlock helped him but stayed on his knees beside the couch, just staring. Then he surged to his feet and began to pace, avoiding Sam and then Dean as mere obstacles.

"Demons then..." He said. "Exorcism, I have read first hand accounts, it's not beyond reality of course, but a demon in John, that's just not possible..."

"He's not possessed..." Dean said, and John shook his head. 

"Don't join in, he won't hear you." He said absent-mindedly rubbing his temples.

"Can I get you a tea?" Sam offered, ignoring the lanky git pacing around him.

"Please...." John said. He had needed a tea from the moment his ribs were creased in the back alley fight, Christ, that was mere hours ago! 

Sam mooched over to the kitchen and busied himself.

John was tired. Bone weary. Everything was coming together in a way he hoped never would. 

He had faced what he had done in Wales fifteen years ago despite therapists and time in Juvie and training to be a medic and time spent eating sand in Afghanistan. He always suspected his actions back then would not lie still and quiet forever but why now, why now when life was as stable as it had ever been. The fights, the fear, the danger and Sherlock, always the lunatic antics of Sherlock fucking Holmes, to centre him finally and make him more whole since that cold winter morning when he pulled the trigger in that church. 

Sam passed John his tea and John inhaled it gratefully.

"John...we will go..." Sam said, and choked off Deans protest with a wave of his hand. "We'll come back tomorrow when....the shock wears off. Because we really need your help. You're the only one who can..."

Johns eyes closed and he nodded around the harsh lump in his throat. Sam took out a pen and a small pad. He wrote his mobile number on it, tore off the strip and gave it to John.

"Our number. We are staying at the Bath House, room eighteen." Sam said then. John took the paper and nodded. "Well...ah..."

"Meet me at Speedys for afternoon tea. About three tomorrow." John said. Sam nodded, then thumped his brother. 

"Let's go."

Dean reluctantly agreed to leave and both Winchesters were gone without Sherlock even acknowledging them. He continued to pace and talk to his massive intellect. John sipped his tea, allowing the milky sweetness to infuse him. Small bit of happy in this whirlwind. He took his bliss where he could.

Sherlock collapsed with a whuff into his own armchair and took on his classic mind palace pose. John sighed patiently. There would be no speaking to Sherlock tonight then. That was fine with John. Once Sherlock found out what he had done in Wales 20 years ago Sherlock would want him to leave. How sweet it had been, though, to have the love of Sherlock Holmes for one whole hour. He had never had anyone look at him like Sherlock had when John had come round. Those eyes so soft, all the harshness gone, and his lips...

Tears prickled Johns eyes and he gulped the rest of the tea. He put the cup down on the coffee table and then heaved himself gingerly to his feet. Sherlock made no sign that he had seen John at all.

"Goodnight Sherlock." He said, and expected, and got, no acknowledgement. He shuffled off, alone, to his room. Maybe for the last time. Ever.

He was only just inside his doorway when Sherlock crowded in behind him, slamming the door closed and gripping Johns arms in fingers tight with anxiousness. John said nothing. He was feeling very much like a reed in a river, bending to a will outside his own. He had almost, but not quite, given up.

Sherlock was staring into his face with such intensity John felt surely he must burst into flame from the man's thoughts alone. 

"John I don't care..."

"Uh...?"

"What you did in Wales. Whatever it was. I don't care."

"Don't say that Sherlock." John said. "Don't...give me hope. You say that now but..."

"John, I trust you." Sherlock said, shaking John a little bit. "Whatever it is, I trust you! Do you understand how HUGE that is?"

"Christ Sherlock don't...." John whispered. How could Sherlock trust him? And why did it feel as if his heart was going to jump out of his throat? 

"John..." Sherlock moved John back until his back was against his own bedroom wall. John watched Sherlocks eyes flit all over his face, his eyes, his neck, his lips, and back to his eyes again.

Fuck....John thought...Sherlock is going to kiss--

And then Sherlocks mouth was on his.

#


	5. FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut. Lovely lovely smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always imagine Hot John has a big cock, okay? You no judge me. Or if you do, make sure you bang your little gavel. CHA-CHING! ~coins in the Monty Python reference Jar~

CHAPTER FOUR

INSIDE THE FLAT

IN JOHNS ROOM, KISSING HIM

John always suspected there was power in a truly loving, intimate, full mouthed kiss. He had kissed before but he was always being taken roughly, in a show of dominance, and kissing was just part of that. Sometimes, the kisses had even hurt.

But Sherlock's kiss, Sherlock's hot mouth on his, was magical. The heat of the taller mans lips sank straight into John's mouth and the velvet of his tongue begging entrance made him suck in oxygen through his nose and open his mouth willingly. Sherlock licked inside with a moan and pressed his whole body against Johns, fingers still gripping Johns arms. John's ribs protested but he didn't care. It added a spark to the kiss that excited him. 

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. Sherlock deepened the kiss with a low moan that skittered like fire over Johns skin and coiled low in his abdomen. The wet velvet heat inside Sherlocks mouth was perfect, just perfect, and John's tongue explored in waves, softly battling the lush softness that was Sherlocks talented tongue. 

If this was to be the one and only loving kiss he ever got, from Sherlock, from anyone, John decided to give in to it. He didn't fool himself into thinking past this kiss and where, tonight, it may lead, so he just gave himself permission to sink into the feelings Sherlock stirred in him.

Just for tonight.

Just for RIGHT NOW.

Sherlocks hands let go of Johns arms and dragged up to cup Johns head. Those lovely long fingers dug unto his skull and tilted him slightly, willingly, so he could deepen the kiss yet more. He moaned into John mouth, unaware he was making any sound. John whimpered again,eyes watering with emotion as he matched Sherlocks intensity.

Sherlock pulled back enough to speak in a voice shaky with lust and...other emotions.

"Not heterosexual then John."

John, eyes closed still and completely pliant in Sherlocks hands, shook his head.

"No label."

"Not a virgin." Sherlock said then, turning Johns head sideways with no resistance from the doctor. 

"No." John said and shuddered as Sherlocks hot mouth and luscious tongue began working their magic on the sensitive and super heated skin on his throat. "God....please..." He whispered, not sure what he was begging for, but for lots of it. Whatever it was.

Sherlock did not stop. In fact, he added teeth to his kisses and Johns moans became deep and wet with need. He clutched at Sherlock's beautiful shirt, crushed it in his fists, and forced Sherlocks body into his.

At Sherlocks shudder and hot breath on his throat John moaned again, rolling his hips up to meet the hard heat of Sherlocks cock, filled and ready in his trousers. Johns moans changed then, tried to make a word, as he forced his neck into Sherlocks mouth, rutting his own hard cock against Sherlock's, the friction and sensation making his stomach hollow and his breath come in short gasps. And when Sherlock's slim hips undulated against him John nearly lost his mind.

John fluttered one of his hands and found Sherlocks dominant hand. He gripped it and dragged it down, pressed it between their bodies and shoved it roughly against his own cock. Sherlock moaned, and palmed Johns cock, claiming his doctors mouth again in a kiss gone filthy with lust.

And John submitted. He went pliant against Sherlock, allowing the man to have him, take him, however he wanted him. But unlike any other time, John decided, John allowed it, John...wanted it.

Sherlock spun them both and began to walk John backwards, still in control of the kiss and the rubbing of Johns increasingly impressive cock. John felt the bed against his legs and Sherlock allowed him to have a controlled fall, mindful of his damaged ribs. Their lips barely parted and then Sherlock was on top of him, one arm under his head still, the other madly rubbing at his cock.

God, how John wanted this, needed this, this love, this softness that came with the desperation in his body, in his kisses, in Sherlocks responses. He moaned and forced his cock into Sherlocks hand, still grabbing fistfuls of that purple shirt, wanting to rip it off the detectives body but not having the concentration to do so.

Sherlock broke the kiss, and stopped rubbing at Johns cock, to drag the mans jumper off and throw it over his shoulder. John completely forgot his ribs as Sherlock rolled his t-shirt up under his armpits, exposing his chest, bruises and all. John was aware his nipples were hard buds but Sherlock's hot heavy tongue on one reminded him just how sensitive they were. He arched and choked, stared unseeingly at the ceiling and bit his bottom lip as Sherlock laved and licked and teased each nipple, rolling the other between finger and thumb so it didn't feel lonely.

Finally, Johns nipples were red and wet and standing proud, so Sherlock slithered back up to kiss John, dry fucking his hips against Johns with frustrating slowness.

"Sherlock Christ..." John panted, when his lips were freed up again.

"Mmm?" Sherlock asked into Johns neck.

"Please!"

"Please what John...." Sherlock teased, as Johns fingers sunk into his luscious curls. He pulled the man from his skin like removing a leech. Sherlock looked into the debauched face of his friend, lips kiss swollen and eyes dark. John swallowed.

"Touch me. Please. I...don't want anything more than your fingers around my cock right now...please...please Sherlock, please..."

"I like you begging John. But only my hand?

"I'm..." John swallowed. It was difficult to think.

"Mmm?" Sherlock teased Johns nipple again and John arched.

"I'm big Sherlock. Too big. Hand is fine..." John said in a rush, blushing.

Sherlock rose one Spockian eyebrow and sat back to unzip Johns jeans. He slid the mans trousers and pants down and John arched again as his hot cock hit the air.

And yes, he was huge. Sherlocks eyes went round with surprise. He licked his lips and palmed his own cock in his fancy trousers.

"So big...Christ I want that in me..." He said and John moaned, eyes rolling shut. He had never put his cock in anyone, he was too big, but for Sherlock to say that with such....hunger. No fear, just naked want..

"No, Sherlock, fuck me please!" John said. "I want you inside me, please..."

"John...." Sherlocks moan was deep and he shuddered. He stood quickly, removing his trousers, pants, shoes, socks, and quickly making John just as naked from the waist down. He scrabbled in Johns drawers and found lube he knew would be there and, before John could even process anything, Sherlocks rock hard and shiny slick cock was ready to plunge into him.

John knew what was required. He went to turn over and Sherlock slapped him on the hip.

"Stay on your back. I want to watch you while we fuck." He said and John looked confused. Did men even do that, rock together, facing each other?

"Okay.." John said. Sherlock frowned. 

"John..."

"Christ, the way you say my name...I swear it will make me come!"

"John..."

"That's it...it's like...I am a treasure..."

"God John, you are perfect...."

Sherlocks hot, hard cock lined up with Johns puckered entrance. A quick smear of lube and he pushed forward.

John loved this bit, being forced to take cock. Even in back alleys or strangers bedrooms he loved this bit. He hated being opened up with fingers or toys or other fucking about, just slick up your cock and fuck me and he was a happy man. Well. Happy enough. 

Oh but when the hardness of Sherlock breached him John nearly came. He sucked in a short breath, like he was going to scream and then moaned. Sherlock slid relentlessly in, slick and wet and hard, and it felt soooooo gooooooood.....Johns legs fell apart, revealing a quick flash of some sort of scar damage Sherlock had never been privy to see, but he forgot all about it when John curled up, abdomen flexing and hissing at the sexy pain of his ribs.

"Sherlock Christ oh my fucking God you...feel...amazing!"

"Johnnnnn." Sherlock moaned, then shoved John down onto his back and began to piston into the velvet slickness of Johns body. He started fast and was unrelenting, pumping into Johns arse hard and deep, the way John loved it, needed it.

John yelped and then went limp with pleasure, hands flopped up next to his head. His eyes half closed, body rocking with every snap forward of Sherlocks hips. His massive cock leaked clear fluid and his prostate swelled with the wet rubbing of Sherlocks swollen cock head pounding relentlessly against it.

"Oh God oh no oh fuck fuck fuck Sherlock that's perfect please please don't stop oh God right there fuck fuck fuck..." He chanted, unaware of the effect his words, his leaking cock, his tight heat and his submissive pose was having on Sherlock. The black haired detective had NEVER been swept with emotion like this during sex before, never! He wanted to WRECK John Watson, pound him apart and...

He had no idea he was doing it until he did, but suddenly, one of his hands was wrapped around Johns throat and squeezing. John shuddered, arching. This was more like it, take what you want Sherlock but oh oh no, this was too intense, too loving, much different from the men who took without care...

"Sherlock no I'll come I'll come!" He choked and the sound of his own strangled voice tipped him closer. Then Sherlock used his free hand to take hold of Johns huge and almost impossibly hard cock, rammed like a piston into Johns swollen hole, tugged once, twice, three times and John screamed as his orgasm hit him like a freight train.

"No, stop, please, no I'm coming I'm coming I...." He screamed, cock twitching hugely as come flew from the end, striping his chest and throat. As the full orange blast of lust hit him he screamed the first part of Sherlocks name and then heard Sherlock gasp. He felt Sherlocks cock swell and then the hot liquid of the detectives come filled Johns arse. 

John's eyes flew open to watch Sherlock come apart. The mans jaw was slack, his eyes looked amazed, and then blank and then closed as he shuddered and shuddered, hand that had been choking John now cupping his cheek with surprising gentleness, thumb stroking his skin as if to gentle him.

Finally Sherlock flopped, exhausted, onto Johns sticky chest, panting and swallowing. John wrapped his arms around him and held him, taking his hugs while he could.

"John...fuck... John...that was..."

"It was. Thank you." John agreed, hoping he didn't sound too defeated. It was wonderful, the nicest he had ever felt in the company of anyone, having sex or not. But it was over, of course. Sherlock could wax lyrical of not caring what he had done and blah blah blah but once he found out...John would not be forgiven and not be loved.

Sherlock suddenly leaped to his feet and raced to the bathroom. He came back with a warm cloth and cleaned John, and then himself. He threw the cloth over his shoulder then snuggled, actually snuggled, next to John, covering them with a spare blanket before they got too cold.

"Sherlock..."

"John, be quiet." He said. "Let yourself have this."

"I...can't..." He choked and it was just as well he said that because a cold wind suddenly blew through the room. Sherlock stiffened and then looked up.

His eyes were completely black and a voice made of many laughed at Johns shocked face.

"Little John Watson....not so brave without your machine gun!" 

John screamed and rolled off the bed, only to find himself suddenly pinned to the wall again by the neck, the body of Sherlock Holmes naked before him...only this time....

Sherlock was not at home.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I read the title of my story I sing "Veronica" by Elvis Costello. Also, I never, I mean NEVER, write Hot John as a subbie but my mean plot bunnies jumped all over me and said "NA NA NA NA NA, he's submissive in thisssssss onnnnnne!"


	6. SIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sings like an angel.

CHAPTER SIX

IN THE BAKER STREET FLAT

TRICKING A DEMON

Unlike twenty minutes before, Sherlock choking him now was not sexy and did not feel good. Of course, it was not actually Sherlock choking him, it was the demon inside which John was suspecting was actually the same demon who had possessed Father Fergus twenty years ago.

He struggled, clawing at the wrist and kicking out but demons possessed super strength and it was hard to rail against that.

"It has taken me twenty years to find you Watson. You are blank in my mind." The Demon hissed.

"I took...precautions...you bastard!" John spat, kicking against the wall and using both his hands to pry at the demons vice grip on his throat.

"Precautions? Like shooting my devilish choir? So young, all those voices, and you silenced them. I barely left my vessel in time! And your voice Watson. It weakened me!"

"It was pretty fucking pure then." John gasped. 

With a mere flick of his arm, the Demon threw John across the room. He landed with a thump and fell over, dazed.

"How did you hide...oh...a sigil!" The Demon stared pointedly at Johns splayed thighs, seeing the pink scarred flesh that hid there.

"Carved into myself with a witches blade, rubbed dead mans soil and mouse blood into it..." John panted, feeling at his neck. "I may have been young but not stupid you prick!"

The Demon crossed the room to do more damage to John. Just for fun really. It was jolly japes to play with ones arch enemy, especially when he was just so infuriatingly human.

 

Before the Demon could get to John though the room filled with a pure white and a high pitched hum. John squeezed his eyes and ears shut against the flare of pain both sensations brought and when he opened them a man stood in the room with them. A black haired trench coated angel with wings of shadow. The angel then tucked those wings back into the ether beyond human senses and stared dead panned at the body possessed by the Demon.

"Crowley. We meet again." He said, in a voice deeper than Sherlocks, if that was even possible. 

The demon hissed again.

"Castiel!" He spat.

"I see you found John."

"I see he called you for back up." Crowley said. "How lovely! I did not near him sing."

John shook his head in confusion. Had he called for help? His upper inner thigh was slightly burning and he suspected that yeah, maybe he had. But he had not meant to. And he had certainly not sung for this angel.

Lucky Castiel had been in the neighbourhood then.

"Let these humans go Crowley."

"Cas Cas Cas, so naïve. I can no more let these humans go than you can give up Dean." 

Castiel stepped forward in a blur and back handed the demon so hard John heard Sherlocks neck snap. Before the body had even landed the black haired angel swooped on John and placed his large warm hand on the very intimate part of his body where John had carved into his own flesh so long ago.

"Sing." Castiel said then. "If you want the demon cast from your friends body and his injuries healed, you must sing John."

John had not sung a single note since the day he killed the choir. He knew his voice was rusty and he lacked the power he once had.

"I can't." He said, shaking his head, even as his thigh grew hot with the angels power.

"You must, John Watson. Sherlock will die if you don't."

John closed his eyes in fear. He had hoped never to have to sing again in his life. There was a reason he had stopped...

His heart thumped but he suddenly pulled himself together. This was Sherlock, his friend and, for one lovely night, his lover. He suddenly found he remembered just how to dig deep inside himself and pull out the power he needed but had almost forgotten how to use.

He opened his mouth.

And sang.

When he had been young, his voice was sweet and pure and high with energy. There had been such power in his voice, and that is the only thing that had saved him when the demons came to his Welsh Village. The words he had sung then were High Order Words, words he never learned but had always known. Words given to him straight from angels and the only thing he had to battle with. Well, that and a machine gun...

Those same words came to him now, unbidden. And his voice was just as pure, though not as high, and pulsed with energy. It was the Angels palm on his sigil that helped though, he was sure. He could feel the warmth and whiteness and pure stinging pain there as he sang.

Sherlocks body twitched and then...suddenly it arched and a black cloud of smoke poured from his gaping mouth. John sang louder and the smoke kept pouring out until it swirled and twirled and left Sherlocks body, making for an ancient vent in the ceiling of the Victorian flat.

The Consulting Detective fell bonelessly to the ground and then....with a moan he rolled over and hot shakily up onto all fours. His neck was fine, his body healed. His very NAKED body...

The door burst open then and Sam and Dean Winchester surged through with weapons drawn and eyes all over, searching for the demon.

What they saw was Sherlock on all fours moaning, Cas with his hand on Johns upper inner thigh, very close to the mans impressive private parts, and Johns mouth just closing as the last beautiful notes fell from his lips.

Dean cocked one eye brow and sheathed his machete.

"Looks like we missed a hell of a party." He said.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes yes, Cas and Dean are together in a slashy sense but I am not sure if it will be written or suggested yet.


	7. SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, quite naturally, has questions.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BAKER STREET LOUNGE ROOM

WRAPPED IN BLANKETS

Sherlock, wrapped in a duvèt reminiscent of a time he wore just a sheet to the Palace but this time he actually had at least put his trousers on, was sipping gratefully at the tea made for him by John. John was also wrapped in a duvet but with fleece trousers and top on as he just could not seem to get warm. He, too, had a tea and was sipping at it. His hands were shaking slightly. He looked worn.

Dean was sat in Johns usual chair and Sam had taken Sherlocks. Castiel was stood awkwardly by the fireplace which he had lit with his angel magic.

Sam leaned forward.

"Are you okay now Mister Holmes?" He asked and Sherlock nodded.

John looked done in, small in his blanket, refusing to catch anyone's eyes. It was not the fact he had been naked in front of these strangers, or that Castiel had been seen with his hand on his junk, but the fact that this was..... It......This was where he lost Sherlock forever. And God, after three years of dancing around each other the sex tonight had been wonderful. What else could he have discovered if this "thing" had been able to run its course? Ah, that way lay madness.

"You must have some questions Sherlock." He said, voice quiet, still refusing to catch anyone's eye. 

"Of course I do John." Sherlock said. 

John nodded. Sam and Dean were silent, but cast looks at each other. It was difficult for people to understand the supernatural world and they could feel John was on a certain precipice. Hell, everyone in the room could see how Sherlock felt about John. This would break them apart. Nothing survived this sort of revelation. It was worse than saying "I accidentally fucked someone at the Office Christmas Party, sorry."

John took a very deep fortifying breath.

"Ask." He said, voice deceptively strong.

"How did you get here?" Sherlock asked Sam and Dean. "What happened to me and...who in the hell are you?" He turned his sloe eyes on Castiel who stood impassive by the fire.

"My name is Castiel. I am--"

"An angel of the Lord." John finished with a sigh. No hiding now. Sherlock swivelled his eyes to John, and then back to Sam and Dean. "He came when I called." John added, tone still defeated. This was stuff he had not thought of in years. All the supernatural stuff which had been so good and normal to him in Wales.

"Of course. John. You called, I came." Castiel said, his bluer than blue eyes on John in a way that made Sherlocks eyes slit in jealousy. 

"He brought us for back up." Dean said, smirking slightly at the look in Sherlocks eyes. Cas had no romantic intentions for John Watson. Never had. He was Deans angel, now and always.

"And you are?" Sherlock asked then, staring at Dean with his deduction gaze turned on full. Dean had faced more disconcerting eyes before and merely shrugged.

"Hunters." He said.

"Of...?"

"Demons." Sam said. "Amongst other things. A demon possessed you tonight for a brief time. It could mean you have a memory black spot."

"I see." Sherlock said, thinking very fast but not admitting that yes, after the mind blowing sex with his gorgeous flatmate, he did, indeed, have a black spot. He turned back to John.

"And you, John?"

"I am...I WAS a Singer. Capital ess." John said in a small voice, sipping his tea and watching as his face distorted in the reflection of the brown liquid.

"Meaning?"

"He can call angels with his voice." Castiel said. "Singers are also known as Conductors Of Light. They take an angels power and use it to heal, or destroy evil. I heard John tonight because we are in a hotel quite close by. He used me to heal your neck Sherlock."

"My neck?"

"Yes. Crowley broke it."

"Crowley?"

"The demon who had been inside you." Sam said then.

"The King Of Hell" Dean added.

"John used to be a very powerful Singer, but tonight he called me through the sigil on his thigh."Castiel said then. "He carved into himself in the Juvenile Detention Centre he was remanded to after he gunned down his local choir and killed them all."

Sherlocks cool demeanour crumpled and he choked on his tea. John groaned, put down his tea with shaking fingers and put his hand to his face. No hiding now, but he really RELLY wanted to.

"Christ Cas!" Dean said under his breath.

"Have I given a Tee Emm Eye?" Cas cocked his head.

"Too much information? Yeah Cas." Dean nodded.

"You gunned down a boys choir John?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep his voice steady but his usual calm deserted him. He had never imagined he would ever have to say those words,that sentence, I mean who ever imagines that!? But especially about John, his sweet, staunch, lovely John!

"You see what I mean Sherlock? Don't promise me that you don't care until you find out what I did. Now you know." John said, eyes closed under his hand. "I got a machine gun and I shot the whole choir. Boys I sang with, boys I had know, played rugby with, went to school with--" his voice choked off. He slid the hand off his face, bent back and stared at the ceiling.

"But they were infested with demons, there was nothing else to could do, you saved the whole world, why are you upset?" Castiel asked.

John stood, allowing the blanket to slide off onto the ground.

"I'm...ah...I'm sorry Sherlock." He said softly, refusing to look at his dark haired friend. "Really. Thank you for...well, everything I guess."

"John?"

John stepped out of the blanket and began to make his way through the lounge room. Sherlock surged to his feet, dropping his tea to the coffee table, his duvet to the ground. He grabbed Johns wrist and stopped him. 

"John." He said, his voice a deep rumble with emotion.

"I...can't Sherlock."

"John, I cannot believe..."

"That I killed them ? I did." John said, eyes watering with memory.

"I have just been told there really are demons and angels John. I am quick but this is a whole new area. Won't you at least give me time to process this before you leave? It's tremendously preemptive of you to turn your back on me and assume."

This gave John pause. Then he shrugged. Whatever outcome now he still had Sherlock, even for just tonight.

He looked searchingly into Sherlocks face. There was no disgust just...deep eyes, deducting, asking, needing to know. No disgust and certainly no anger. 

"Okay...."

He sat back under his duvet, still shivering to keep warm. His energy had been depleted due to the nights activity and he really needed to sleep.

"Where do you Hunters come into this? What do you want with John?" Sherlock asked, sliding back under his blanket too, creeping a bit closer to John who had picked up his tea again.

"When John destroyed the...vessels..Crowley, who had possessed Father Fergus, managed to escape." Sam explained carefully. "He went off grid. Our father lost him after Wales." 

"Your father is a Hunter too?"

"He was." Dean said. "He left a journal and that helps us with cases sometimes. When things began to get freaky we found the case in Wales and that lead us to John."

"Your father explained everything to me ." John said, a tight smile on his face. "He was a source of great comfort at a time when I was so confused and crazy that I thought I was going to have to leap from cliff."

Sherlock gripped. Johns leg suddenly in fear. 

"Don't..."

John shook his head. "He provided the machine gun. Accidentally...." Here the sandy haired doctor gave a slight half smile and Dean snorted.

"Yeah, he always had an impressive arsenal." He said wistfully. Sam stared at him. "What? I like weapons okay?"

Sam turned back and saw John struggling.

"John...?

"It's hard to think of my mates as vessels." John whispered, closing his eyes. "I may have been metaphorically breaking jars but I could not put them back together."

"They were gone John. Nothing of them was left." Sam said. "Crowley was training them to sing demons through to our world, John, and you stopped him."

John shook his head.

"I know. I knew that then." He opened his eyes and stared at Sam. "Does not make it any easier. I. Killed. Them."

"And you paid the price." Dean said.

"And now he's back. What do I have to give up this time?" John sighed.

"You have back up this time." Sam said in a quiet voice. "Dean, me, Cas." He paused "Sherlock..."

Sherlock said nothing. He was back in Mind Palace Mode, leaning against the couch and hands beneath his chin. 

"Dude!" Dean snapped but John shook his head.

"It's okay, he does this." He explained.

"What, hides behind his ignorance and blanks everyone?"

John sighed. He was not about to explain Sherlock to strangers.

"Just trust me. Now, you mentioned needing me. What exactly do you need me to do?"

Sam and Dean looked at each other shiftily. It was Castiel who answered.

"Sing, John. We need you to sing."

John sighed and fell back against the couch. He jiggled Sherlocks hands but the genius made no indication he had felt anything. 

"Sing the demons out or sing the angels in?" He said. Neither boded well for him. 

"Your gift as a Singer has never been surpassed John Watson. Crowley is back in London to find vessels for an army. You are once again all that stands between him and his choir." 

"Fantastic." John sighed 

"And now he knows you, knows where you are, he will come back. He wants you dead and he will use Sherlock again. You have to protect him from further attack." Sam said.

"How?" John asked, although he suspected he knew exactly how.

"The same way you protected yourself." Dean said, and flicked his eyes to Johns crotch and back.

John turned and stared at Sherlock who still made no indication he was even in the room let alone about to have his skin carved up.

"Is it a full moon outside?" John asked then, without taking his eyes off Sherlock.

"Uh...no..." Sam said, confused. "Why?"

"Because.." John said "If I am going to dig up a body in graveyard at midnight with my best friend, I would like a little ambience."

#


	8. EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go on a graveyard adventure.

CHAPTER EIGHT

IN A GRAVEYARD

LOOKING FOR A FRESH GRAVE

If John wanted ambience, he got it, even without the full moon. It was lightly misty-raining, cold, mostly dark as the only lights were the yellow one from the churches parking lot and the multicoloured stained glass windows of the church lit from within.

Sam, Dean and Castiel had planted themselves at pivotal points in the dark and the misty rain, guarding the perimeter of the graveyard, as John and Sherlock entered by the gates. They made their way by torchlight down one of the many paths that criss crossed the massive lawn of the dead.

Sherlock followed John. John held the torch. John knew what he was looking for and Sherlock chose to yield to his greater knowledge in this matter.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Sherlock asked.

"Fresh grave."

"Ah. Yes. Of course."

"This is the closest graveyard taking new bodies. We need one in the ground less than a day."

"Because...?"

"The dirt is at its most magical." John sighed, realising how it sounded. "From the soul energy passing through it."

"And the mouse blood?" Sherlock asked then, trying not to think of the vial in Johns pocket and how they had....acquired it. He also refused to think of the scalpel kit and alcoholic swabs waiting on the kitchen table at home.

"Mice are magical too. And plentiful." John explained. "Cats are more magical of course but the outcry if it got out we had ever used Cats blood would set back humanity a few hundred--what?"

Sherlock had stopped and was staring at John. John turned back when he realised Sherlock was not following him. He shone the torch on the ground at Sherlocks feet so he would not blind his friend.

"You said 'we' John." Sherlock said. 

John tilted his head, haloed by the yellow lights on the far off church. His eyes shone silver in the mist and Sherlock realised he was not looking at John the doctor, John the blogger, John the wounded soldier, but John the supernatural being. A Singer. Conductor Of Light. Sherlock took a few seconds to process this, and he had to admit to himself it thrilled him. John was magic, always had been to Sherlock, but now he was Magic. MAGIC!

"Did I...?" John asked then. "I said 'we'?"

"You did." Sherlock said. Perhaps John was more comfortable in this world of magic than either of them realised.

"Come on, this dirt isn't getting any fresher." John said then, and turned and was back walking the path, torch light in front of him.

After a second Sherlock followed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and hunched into the mist.

It took them about fifteen minutes to find a grave that John liked. He gave the torch to Sherlock and bent to scoop some of the fresh turned earth into a velvet bag that looked way too pretentious for John. 

He pulled out the vial of mouse blood and dripped it in. Then he shook the bag, tied it closed with a gold cord and slipped it into his coat pocket too.

"Okay, give it time to warm against my body on the walk home and we will be good to go." John said.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and was just about to say some remark when there was the sound of a flapping coat and Castiel appeared in the mist.

"John, can you come into the church?"

"Um...why?"

"There's a choir practising. It is something Crowley will like."

"Will Sherlock be safe?" John asked instantly.

"Give him the bag. Sam and Dean can take him home." Castiel ordered.

"I won't leave John." Sherlock stated. No need for histrionics, this need to stay with John was just a fact.

Castiel turned his bluer than blue eyes to Sherlock.

"I cannot guarantee your safety if Crowley turns up." Castiel said.

"I will have you, the Hunters, and a bag of dirt, what could go wrong?"

John actually giggled. It had been a long tome since he had giggled. Perhaps...when he became the proud owner of a palace ash-tray? Then he passed Sherlock the bag.

"Keep it in your inner pocket. Warm it up. It helps." He smiled and Sherlock did just that.

Castiel led the way to the church. Sam and Dean were waiting at the bottom of the step concerned looks on their faces.

"Did you get the dirt?"

"Yes. Sherlock has it." Castiel told them.

They all paused when voices began to sing from inside. Male and female raised in harmony in a hymn. John frowned. He knew this one. He muttered something and Dean said:

"What the hell is a pee-yay yaysu?"

"It's a hymn." Sherlock said in a tone that suggested 'philistine'.

"It's a marvellous hymn." John said, eyes closing and a small smile on his face. Dean looked slightly uncomfortable and turned back to Castiel.

"Have you seen any demon action?" He asked the angel.

"No, not yet Dean." 

John turned and began to climb the steps. Then he turned around and fixed Sherlock a look.

"Stay at the back Sherlock and run if anything happens." 

"Of course John." Sherlock said. He, naturally, had no intention of doing so. 

John nodded once, then continued up the stairs. Sherlock followed and Sam and Dean came after him. Castiel disappeared and reappeared inside the vestibule just as John opened the door and entered the church.

John ignored everyone, eyes fixed on the choir as he practically MARCHED down the aisle to words them. Sherlock, noticing no-ones eyes were on him, slid down the side aisle, scooted to the front and hid behind a column. This, he thought, would give him protection against whatever and also afforded him a view of the action.

Once John was at a distance he liked he stopped. The choir master had also stopped once he saw John approach. 

"Have you come to join us?" He asked in a jolly voice. "We can always use fresh blood!"

John closed his eyes, opened his mouth...

And sang....

#


	9. NINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley does a sleight-of-body.

CHAPTER NINE

IN THE CHURCH

LISTENING TO AN ANGEL

Goosebumps bloomed all over Sherlocks skin and he fell back against the column, trying to catch his breath. He had never heard a voice like that before, and the fact it came from John completely blindsided him. He felt the notes reach down his throat and swirl inside him, like silver smoke, and it made him feel both wonderful and uncomfortably aroused. Well, the arousal itself was nice, the fact he was in a church and John was singing a hymn was what made it uncomfortable. He didn't get to the age he was without knowing a LITTLE about reverence in church. His raging hard cock seemed out of place to say the least.

He pressed a long fingered hand to his chest and could feel his heart through all the layers of his clothes. The thumping on his throat echoed the beat and he felt dizzy with want. His knees went all wobbly and he could hardly hold himself up.

Johns voice did not reach into Sam or Dean with the same intensity but affected them none the less. They could feel the energy swirling around John and were impressed at just how powerful it was for a man prone to wearing soft jumpers and appearing as sweet as a kitten. 

Castiel, however, had lifted from the flagstones and his wings had blinked into existence from the dimension humans could not see. John's power had done this of course but only because Castiel gave him muted permission. Cas was a strong angel, and intrinsically good, so Johns singing empowered him, once he allowed it in. 

The choir had stopped singing and were staring at John as he sung. The acoustics in the church lent themselves to choral singing and Johns sweet voice echoed and bounced off the walls enticingly. The choir master himself was big eyed and staring, seeming to drink in every note.

Suddenly, one of the tenors at the back began to stagger and gasp.

"William!" someone cried, but the man called William was now twisting and battling himself, tearing at his jacket and and shirt, his face contorting into strange shapes. 

"Oh I say--" the choir master said , and then the whole choir screamed and scattered. Castiel had flown into their midst, making straight for William the Tenor, causing panic amongst the gathered flock. They screamed and jumped and rolled off the stage, making for the side doors. The choir master barely held himself still, yelling at his parishioners to make for the open doors and away. Then he, too, panicked and ran, disappearing after the last of the choir.

Castiel had William by the throat. His eyes were glowing and William was contorting. There was a glow that made Sam and Dean cover their eyes, even as they ducked behind a pew. Sam looked for Sherlock and found him curled into a ball on the floor, shivering, or maybe...maybe he was sobbing? Was he okay? Sam began to commando crawl towards Sherlock, leaving Dean to back up John and Cas, should they need it. 

Johns voice rose in pitch until it was as high as a male voice can go and still sound good. And his voice sounded good! Williams contortions went feral and and suddenly, the demon which had quite obviously hidden in a lowly chorister rather than the more obvious choirmaster despite the fresh blood comment, was expelled forcefully as a dark black smoke. It roared from Williams throat and swirled in a spiral, but instead of escaping it headed to a column to the side where, unbeknownst to John or Castiel, Sherlock was cowering.

Sam saw the smoke heading for Sherlock and yelled out "NO!". He leaped the last foot and landed on the lanky detective as the smoke enveloped them.

Suddenly all was silent for Sherlock and Sam. They were in a total blackout where nothing penetrated. And they both heard the voices, Crowley's many voices, pounding inside their heads.

"YOU CANNOT SAVE HIM SHERLOCK HOLMES HE IS A DEAD MAN WALKING NO MATTER HIW MUCH YOU THINK YOU KNOW YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT JOHN WATSON HE IS DEATH HE IS EVIL HE IS--" 

Then the smoke laughed.

"DEAD MANS DIRT AND MOUSE BLOOD REALLY IT CANNOT STOP--"

And then the smoke screamed and suddenly the world came back to Sam and Sherlock, Crowley's smoke speeding out the front door and away.

Castiel rose above them both as a tall bright being and behind him stood John Watson, hand on Castiel's shoulder right where the wing sprouted. Sam was astounded. Humans could not touch an angel when he had his wings out and was glowing like a beacon, yet John obviously unaffected. In fact, he was stronger for the power Castiel shared with him.

Then Castiel swallowed his wings, extinguished his light and the last of Johns notes faded.

"Sherlock...?" John rasped.

"Alive..." Sam said.

"Oh...good..." John added and once again dropped to the ground despite Deans valiant effort to catch him.

#


	10. TEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigil carving time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't know how they got Baby into the country with. Just call it FC, Fannfic Convenience, and we will all be happy and there's jam for tea.

CHAPTER TEN

IN THE IMPALA AND HOME AGAIN

THEN ON THE KITCHEN TABLE

Baby the impala fit everyone in nicely for the trip home. Dean, naturally, drove and Sam rode shotgun. Sherlock sat in the back supporting a still comatose John who's head lolled quite nicely against Sherlocks shoulder. 

Castiel was also in the back, after healing William of his only slight injuries and leaving him comfortably resting in the care of a slightly shaken but very brave Choir Master. The choir master was told he had been in the very middle of an angels bs demons battle and he was actually quite pleased. It was nice to have his faith reinforced with visual fact. He would never forget this night. Neither, it must be said, would William.

 

Castiel was staring out of the window, absorbing the new information about John Watson

Singers were not supposed to be this powerful. How could John even touch him when he, Castiel, was in full celestial guise? That was something he had never come across. It explained why the sigil in Johns upper thigh worked so well and why John would have to do the same to Sherlock. Castiels powers were greater but the connection between Sherlock and John was quite strong. It was unusual but, Castiel decided, good. And better than a tattoo.

"We taking John to hospital Sherlock?" Sam asked from the front. The doctor looked done in again. How many hours sleep had he had in the last twenty four? 

"John will stay with me. I will look after him." Sherlock stated. Dean looked sceptical. He recalled how absent the Detective could be. However John seemed to trust him and they obviously liked each other enough to stay friends despite Sherlock's......foibles.

Baby pulled up at Baker Street.

"Thank you. For...tonight." Sherlock said to Sam. Sam had, after all, thrown himself in harms way to save Sherlock from the smoke that was Crowley. Sam nodded, once.

"We will see John at three at Speedy's this afternoon." Dean said, aware that dawn was almost upon them and hoping John was awake enough by then to attend what was rapidly becoming a very important meeting.

"It's been a very long night. John will need his sleep." Sherlock said. 

"Yeah well, we all like sleep." Dean said.

"We will see you later." Sam added, taking the edge off Deans snapped comment. He needn't have bothered. Sherlock didn't care.

"Sleep well." Was all Castiel said.

The detective heaved his floppy blogger from the car and the Impala sped off. 

"We home Sh'lock?" John mumbled, leaning heavily on Sherlock's side.

"Yes, John, let's get you into bed."

"Can't fuck, too tired..."

Sherlock snorted at this, fumbling for the keys. He opened the door and all but dragged John up the stairs to their flat. He made for his own bedroom as it was closest. He dumped John unceremoniously and was more than happy to strip him of his shoes and jacket, leaving him in his sweats and T-shirt. John was already asleep so Sherlock covered him in a blanket then sat in a chair, watching him sleep, hands beneath his chin.

John did not move for five solid hours. When he did wake up was very groggy but well rested. He realised he was in Sherlocks room but alone. He threw off the covers and stretched in a bone-crackingly good way, yawning happily.

Then he stood to find his flatmate.

Sherlock, in just a shirt and trousers, was standing in the kitchen, staring at the jug as it boiled.

"Tea?" He asked, without even turning his head. John had a sudden urge for Sherlock's warmth and so embraced his friend from behind, laying his stubbly face against Sherlock's shoulder blades.

"Tea would be smashing." He said. Sherlock rumbled a reply and it echoed through his body and into Johns ear.

Sherlock carefully turned until he had John in his arms. He stared down at him and John blinked up at him.

"Uh oh, I know that look. You have been Wandering the Halls haven't you?" John asked, using his euphemism for Sherlocks mind palace.

Sherlock snorted.

"Yes, I have." He said. "I have--"

"Questions. Yes. But please, tea first? And what's the time?"

"Just after nine. Sit on the couch. John, I'll bring you tea."

John shuffled, yawning, over to the couch and plonked himself down, scratching his head into tufty spikes and making Sherlock smile. He turned to attend the tea and soon brought two cups over for himself and John. He slid elegantly next to his friend and sipped.

"Go on, ask them." John smiled, recalling the last time he had said that, and how anxious he had been. Was that...Christ, was that just last night?

"The demon last night...he could not enter me because of the mouse blood and dead mans dirt." Sherlock said, nodding to where the velvet bag was sat on the coffee table.

"Um...I guess. Although Sam Winchester was also on you."

"And that would stop Crowley why?"

"Sam and Dean have permanent sigils on themselves too." John said. He recalled the tattoo John Winchester had shown him. It had not been done in ordinary ink, and the design had burned itself into Johns mind so much he was able to recall it and cut it into his own skin. "They have theirs in the form of a tattoo done with mouse blood ink."

"Why can I not get a tattoo as well. Why didn't you?"

"There are two reasons I could not get the sigil tattooed into me." John said. "One, I was in a detention centre and did not have access to a tattoo gun, and two, for me as a Singer the sigil had to be kind of....burned into my skin. The same with you."

"But I am not a Singer nor magical in any way." Sherlock said, and saw John smirk. 

"John...?"

"When I was Singing last night, in the church, I could sense you."

"Sense me how?"

"Like am imprint on my mind. You were...happy..." John grinned. Sherlock paused and then nodded.

"A euphemism for my hard penis, go on." He invited and John almost spurted out his tea in a very undignified manner.

"Yes. You were hard." He laughed happily and even Sherlock smiled at that. "We are connected. In order to keep you safe I have to share my healing powers with you. So, deep cut, dirt, blood, and my voice. There is nothing to prevent you from getting a magical tattoo but this way, my way, keeps you much much safer." John turned his eyes to Sherlock. "And I WOULD have you safe, Sherlock, I just...would."

Sherlock nodded, put down his tea,stood, and shucked his trousers.

"Do it." He said, standing in just his crisp white shirt and tight wine-dark boyleg boxers. "Inner thigh, like yours."

John congratulated himself on his control. He finished his tea and nodded.

"Where do you want me?" Sherlock asked and Christ if that was not taken two ways by our good doctor. But he cleared his head and said "Kitchen table. Easier to clean off later."

Sherlock nodded, snatched up the bag and made his way to the table. It was relatively clean and the swabs and scalpels that had been laid there last night were still there. He steeled himself and hopped up, sitting perched like an elegant bird. 

John cracked his knuckles, rose, and came over. He was quite prepared for this, he thought. All he was going to do was permanently mark his lover with a magic sigil that would stop Crowley from ever using him again. Meh, all in a days work.

He washed his hands, dried them, snapped on gloves.

"What did you use?" Sherlock asked then, propping one of his legs up on the back of a chair, exposing his beautiful creamy inner thigh to. John with no thought to how extremely sexy he looked.

"For what?"

"You said you were in a detention centre. No scalpels. What did you use?

"I worried a nail from the wall and used that." John said, recalling the pain. "It did not get infected but it hurt. This will hurt too, but not as much. I will try to take the pain away."

"You healed your own ribs, I can trust you with my skin."

John paused. His ribs were, indeed, not hurting. He had not thought of them in hours and hours. Silly,really, he had angel healing powers. Must have been distracted.

John sat on the chair that Sherlock had his foot on. He moved Sherlocks leg over and pressed his gloved fingers to the tender and soft flesh he was going to carve into. He did not ask if Sherlock was sure. This had to be done.

He wiped a swab of alcohol over the skin and Sherlock hissed at the coldness. John then picked up a sterilised scalpel, removed it from its packaging and laid the point to Sherlocks skin. He and the detective both took a deep breath...and he began.

At the first slash Sherlock breathed in through his nose, his whole body tensing and freezing. The pain was incredible, bright white and fireworks and the need to flee was strong. But he had control over his transport and he refused to move. 

John pretended it was not his boyfriend he was carving into but a picture he was drawing. The blood that welled as he worked kind of destroyed the image but he pictured paper and pencil anyway. It helped.

He paused to wipe away some blood and Sherlock began to whine deep in his throat. The pain was relentless and he wanted it to stop so much.

"Half done." John eventually croaked. Sherlock gasped. Only half done? Had they not been at this for hours?

Sherlock clenched his eyes and fists but still refused to move. John was now in the zone. All he could see was the design, the flesh, the blood and the pattern. Sun, ringing a pentagram. Protection from demons.

"John--" Sherlock gasped.

"Nearly done." John grunted, carving the triangles of the suns rays and wiping the blood as it welled.

Finally the cutting itself stopped. He put down the scalpel and snapped off the gloves. He glanced a look at Sherlock to see his face wet with a sheen of sweat and paler than usual.

"That's the hard bit done Sherlock. Now comes the good stuff." John said softly, and Sherlock nodded. 

John opened the bag of dirt, grabbed a handful and centred himself. Dug down for his Power and then..

He slapped his hand against Sherlocks thigh, covering the sigil with dirt. He pressed in against the wound and then shoved tendrils of light against it.

Sherlocks eyes flew open and a ragged gasp fell from his mouth. The pain, sharp and needy, was gone. His thigh warmed under Johns palm and then he could feel that silver smoke again, filling him. It was then he realised John was Singing, low and sweet, and it was sublime.

Sherlock writhed gently like a cat and yes, he purred and stretched. He felt wonderful, decadent, sexy, wanton and pure all at once. He was aware of his cock filling and hardening and was pleased that John was eye-to-.....eye with it.

John saw. Of course he saw. And he grinned. He sent more energy into the sigil and Sherlock moaned in pleasure. Johns breath was taken away and his cock uncoiled, suddenly VERY interested in proceedings. 

When the song was done, John took his hand from Sherlocks thigh. The dirt and mouse blood had disappeared and the sigil was outlined in a white so pure it was almost blue. It glowed and throbbed in time to Sherlock's pulse and John had never seen anything so damn sexy in his entire life.

He leapt to his feet and dragged Sherlock in for a kiss. Their mouths, hot for each other, battled and sank against each other's heat, wet and sensuous. Their tongues caressed and slid against each other and Sherlock's back arched into John's sturdy body.

"Oh God oh God oh God...." John panted, battling with Sherlocks pants. He finally slid his hand in and gripped Sherlock's length. Sherlock moaned and then, when John began to stroke him the detective writhed and thrust up off the table, shoving his cock into the tight ring of Johns fingers. It was pure animal instinct and it was wonderful. The sounds Sherlock was making into Johns mouth were indescribably primal, and they went straight to Johns lizard brain. He stroked Sherlock harder until the man was practically bouncing from the table. 

Sherlock's need to come was great. He had never begged for anything in his life but he begged now. He was not even sure he was begging in English, just sounds, but John knew what he wanted.

John clamped Sherlock to him using his other arm around the detectives shoulders. He pulled him in close and tight and safe and then, in a breathy voice that ruffled the inky curls at the side of Sherlock's head, John whispered "come" into Sherlocks ear.

And come he did, screaming, his head filled with white light and bursting red. His whole body arched and twanged like a bow string with every wave of come spurting from the end of his cock. John was moaning too, softly, the sight and feel of his lover undone so much making him shake with lust and love. He murmured Sherlock's name over and over until finally, tears pouring from his eyes, the detective was spent. He whimpered and fell against John, panting, heart thrumming with life and love.

No mere words were needed just then. John merely held Sherlock until the shaking turned to trembling and the tears turned to smiles.

"Thank you John." Sherlock whispered. John squeezed his lover and laughed, just once.

"Oh no...no no...thank YOU." He huffed and realised that right now, right then, was the happiest he had ever been.

#


	11. ELEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter of shower antics to show I have not abandoned this fic!

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IN THE SHOWER

WONDER TWINS

"Shower would be nice." John eventually said, prying himself from Sherlocks pliant body. 

"Mmm-hmmm." Sherlock agreed, and they shuffled into the bathroom. When the shower was nice and steamy they both slid in and sighed at the gorgeous hot water as it hit their sweaty and bloodied bodies. 

Sherlock shivered as the water hit his new scar and John smiled.

"Wanna see something awesome?"

"John, what is more awesome than you?" Sherlock said smoothly, smiling in an oily way that was obviously a caricature of the sexy flirter.

"Oh stop, that's revolting!" John snickered, and Sherlock responded by kissing John lightly on the neck.

"Sherlock, stop..."

"Don't you want my sweet kisses John Watson....?"

"Good lord, that is just wrong!" John laughed, but found his nipples tingling in response to Sherlocks tongue. Sherlock rumbled.

"You are so naughty--"

"You need to stop that cos it's...stupid..." John sighed, all his words lost. He finally pushed Sherlock off, a determined look on her face. "I wanna show you something awesome, remember?"

"Okay."

"Lift your leg up, the one I just scarred."

Sherlock lifted his leg as asked and John lifted his too.

"Oh you are way taller than I thought but look...."

With a bit of a wobble, he lined his own scar with Sherlocks.

"See, perfect mirror images--"

But the second their scars touched there was a crack, a huge light, and then both men were waking up on the tiled floor of the shower, water gone cold. They were both smiling like idiots because it had actually felt really nice, like being wrapped in vanilla sunshine, but the resultant bruises were not appreciated. 

John began to laugh. How crazy was his life now? He heaved himself to a sitting position, turned off the now cold water and stared at his giggling lover. 

"Let's not do that again." Sherlock suggested, and John nodded. Then he laughed again. "John?" Sherlock frowned.

"Wonder twins, activate...." John snorted and Sherlock, not getting the reference, simply smiled because John laughing was just so cute.

Eventually they got up, and dressed. John cleared away the blood and sterilised the instruments and table while Sherlock made tea. They sipped it companionably, Sherlock still aware of an nice tingle in his thigh.

Then they both made their way to Speedy's cafè to meet the Hunters and Cas.

#


End file.
